Hypocrite, Hypocrite
by SolarRose29
Summary: Steve's morals are deteriorating. (Post Civil War, Pre Infinity War)


Based off a deleted scene (never filmed) described in an interview by Infinity War screenwriters

* * *

The grandfather clock in the hall strikes eleven, a seemingly endless series of chimes that ricochet off the walls into the dining room, only serving to highlight the prevailing silence. Steve shuts his eyes and waits for the clock to stop. When it does, the silence is back, worse than before. He glances around the table, across the quaint tablecloth and chipped china. Natasha is eating her dinner like she does everything these days - methodically, efficiently, expressionless. He watches her impale four green beans in rapid succession. She never misses.

A scrape of chair on floor finally pulls his attention to where Wanda is making her dramatic exit from the table, scooping up her unfinished plate and coffee cup as she marches from the room like the young adult that she is. There's a reminder on the tip of his tongue, a habit, really more of a reflex by now, to save her leftovers. 'Waste not, want not' and all that. But he's too tired. He doesn't feel up to lecturing, or taking on the role of exasperated guardian right now. As she goes through the doorway, he stares after her, eyes fixed to a nondescript spot on the back of her sweater until she rounds the bend and is swallowed up by the house.

When he swivels his gaze back to the dining room, Sam is staring at him, brows drawn and mouth pinched.

"You're bleeding into your mashed potatoes."

Steve looks down. He's bleeding into his mashed potatoes. Just a few specks of brilliant red sitting on top of the white, like some sort of garnish or second gravy. The pieces come together slowly in his mind. He's bleeding. Some injury somewhere is still bleeding. And at the dinner table no less. His mother must be rolling over in her grave.

Natasha sets down her cutlery - methodically, efficiently, expressionless. "You told me you were fine."

Words take too much effort so Steve settles for an exhausted quirk of his lips and hopes that's a suitable substitute. Natasha's face is blank, stays that way for a minute, and then she goes back to her meal. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees Sam shift uncomfortably in his chair. Probably stuck between his innate desire to help and the complicated logistics of reality. Taking pity on him, Steve takes the decision out of his hands by leaving the table of his own volition.

The bathroom is his first destination. After wetting a washcloth with the warmest water this old house can scrounge up, he pauses at the base of the narrow staircase. Too many steps and not enough motivation. There's a large mirror hung over the mantle in the living room. That will have to do. He starts with his face (which he idly notes is in need of a good shave), though he doubts that's the source because Natasha wouldn't have missed the obvious. His chest piece comes off next, awkward and unwieldy, and once that's gone, he peels out of his undershirt and scans his torso. There. A gash on his right side, just below the ribs. The weak spot in his uniform. On the side where Natasha isn't. The side Sam would normally cover. But Sam wasn't on this mission. The guy's only human and Steve can't ask him to push himself to superhuman limits. Besides, it's good to have someone here with Wanda. Even if Sam playing Betty Crocker is a little strange for Steve to comprehend. Then again, Sam had a life. He was a fully functioning adult long before Steve came along and ruined it. The man's been cooking for himself for years, and he's a damn fine chef. A skill which Steve is grateful for, so it only adds to his guilt for ruining a perfectly good plate of mashed potatoes with blood.

He senses a presence behind him and turns to find Wanda frozen on the sofa, eyes wide and face pale. Letting out a soft sigh, he presses the washcloth to his midsection and crosses the room to drop into the armchair across from her. Maybe he's finally adjusting to this new century, but he doesn't feel the same sort of embarrassment he would have sitting half naked in front of a woman. Or maybe it's just that running for your life with someone chips away at social constructs such as modesty. Privacy is a rare thing to come by in a situation like theirs.

"I should have been there."

Wanda's words are barely above a whisper. Steve shakes his head. This time, her tone is stronger. "You should have let me come."

"You know why I can't do that." He pushes the rag a little tighter to the cut. A bit of pressure and it'll be closed in no time, all thanks to the serum.

"If I had gone with you, I could have done something."

"No."

"I could have protected you," Wanda insists.

Steve shakes his head again.

"I would have-" she starts.

"You know why you can't!"

She draws back, curling in on herself, and Steve hangs his head. He didn't mean to raise his voice. After a deep breath, he lifts his chin and starts over.

"Wanda, if someone saw you using your powers…"

"But you use yours all the time," she interrupts, leaning forward now as she warms to the argument.

"Mine are a little easier to explain away. But there's no way anyone could mistake yours for anything other than what they are."

"I would be careful." Her expression is all eager and earnest and he has to look away. "We could make sure the area was clear. No witnesses, no cameras."

"Wanda…"

"We could make it work. All it would take is a little more surveillance than usual-"

Steve holds up a hand. "Stop, Wanda."

Her face hardens. "You can't keep me cooped up in here forever."

"That's not what I'm- Look, all I'm trying to do is-"

She launches off the cushions. "Protect me? Is that what you were going to say? Stark said the exact same thing." With that, she storms out of the room.

He's lost the argument. Even when he gets his way, he loses. That seems to happen to him a lot. The fibers in the washcloth catch on the edge of his wound when he pulls it away to check the state of the injury.

"Mind if I?"

Steve jumps at the voice. Sam raises his hands, nonthreatening.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. Just wanted to see if I could help."

He considers being stubborn. Brushing Sam off and wallowing in his own misery. But in the end he hands over the soiled cloth and sits up straight to allow clear access to his abdomen. Sam kneels, expert hands cleaning the area quickly. Once the blood, both fresh and old - since Steve apparently managed to reopen the cut between receiving it and having dinner - is gone, Sam readies a bandage. He came prepared.

"I couldn't help but overhear," he begins casually, fitting the bandage in place.

Steve exhales through his nose and tips his head back to rest against the chair.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sam offers, finishing his task in a matter of seconds.

There's a water stain on the ceiling. Steve never noticed it before. It's strange to have a roof over their heads. It won't last long though. Either the government will catch up with them or the landlord will when he figures out they can't actually pay the rent like they said they could. Once upon a time, that sort of blatant lie would have been repugnant to Steve. But his morals are as much in shambles as the rest of his life at this point so he really can't be bothered.

"Am I doing the right thing?" Steve asks, face still tilted to the ceiling.

Springs in the couch creak as Sam takes a seat. "You mean with Wanda?"

Steve nods. Sam doesn't answer right away. Steve blinks once, twice. "Is it really all that different from what Tony did?" He rolls his head on his neck to stare Sam dead in the eye. "Doesn't that make me a hypocrite?"

"I think," Sam says, "You both did the best you could in a difficult situation."

It's a non-answer. The clock strikes the half hour.

"I'm going to do the dishes." Sam stands and leaves.

Steve retrieves his undershirt, drags it over his head, carefully avoiding the mirror this time.


End file.
